I Used To Think We Could Speak of Tomorrow
by Ninny-na
Summary: but now I can't even speak for t o d a y . . . / They like to ask for names that lie broken on his tongue. Then they ask for answers and all he can do is stare. He seems to do little else. - ; DESTIEL ONESHOT. past Godstiel.


**Title: **I Used To Think We Could Speak of Tomorrow (_But Now I Can't Even Speak For Today_)

**Summary: **They ask for names that lie broken on his tongue; they ask for time, which seems too faulty and stretched out; they ask for memories, half of which seem impossible, unknown, or **wrong**. They ask for answers and all he can do is stare. _He seems to do little else.  
><strong>Warnings: <strong>Eh, some cursing.  
><strong>Background: <strong>_This is a random ficlet that I started before 7x01/7x02 came out. In the beginning, it wasn't affiliated with those episodes, but I snuck in a couple things. Shh. ;D Uhm. Basically, this fic with a completely different ending to Godstiel. It does NOT having anything to deal with Leviathans, or really, anything with the new episodes. Here, Cas becomes God, but then God finally shows up, quite upset with his son's behaviour. He then forces Cas to release the souls, which causes Cas to become some sort of Human-Angel deity; as well, it causes him to lose all his memories. This is where the story starts, with Cas devoid of everything to do with Heaven, Angels, the Apocalypse, and the Winchesters, sprawled on a grassy hill.  
><strong>beta'd by the lovely sea-salt kisses. I luff her. :D<strong>

**DISCLAIMER: **Supernatural, its characters, and anything else affiliated with it, does not belong to me. If it did, I'd be rich, not writing so-so fanfics.  
><em>this is on Tumblr as well, under nny-151.<em>

* * *

><p>Blue.<p>

(**Blue : **_|bloō| of a colour intermediate between green and violet, as of the sky or sea on a sunny day : the clear blue sky | blue jeans | deep blue eyes|_)

"Holy shit!"

The sky is blue.

"Hey! Hey, are you okay!"

No, he takes pause, his fingers twitching, brushing, grasping blindly and unconsciously at the fragile blades of grass resting beneath his hands. No, the sky is black. Brows furrow, his head tilts, and eyes stare - determined and blank.

The sky is black. So why is it that is appears cerulean to his eyes? Father, something about a Father.

"Dude!"

The man's frown deepens now; he was not a _dude. _Nor was he any other variation of man. He was… he was...

"Hey!"

He looks up now, from his sprawled position on the softly rolling hill. He can see two people, staring at him; wide eyed, curious, frightened, and anxious. Emotions were swirling in their eyes, around their bodies. Staining their bright souls dark with worry. The man on the ground now blinks.

"Light particles," he says, his voice deep; rough; _gravelly. _His words earn him a puzzled look, the male of the duo's face pinching up, a strange look. _Strange Look # 1_ he decides to call it. "Light particles reflect the sun's... No. No. Dust particles and moisture in the sky reflect the sun's light, causing the sky to appear blue."

He nods then, proud, but angry - how could he forget such a simple fact?

The duo above him exchanges a quick look at that before the female licks her lips quickly, a sign of nervousness and worry, and speaks.

"Uhm." She pauses. The man thinks. Uhm. A break for thought. When one is not quite sure on how to finish or start a statement. "All right. They sky is blue because of... dust particles and moisture. Right. Okay. So, you're alright then? Don't need us to... call anyone?"

The man on the ground doesn't respond. Broken names pile up on his tongue, an array of frazzled words wish to spill from his mouth but none seem to have the ability to actually form themselves properly. So he doesn't speak. He stares instead, back to the sky, the clouds, the he... he... Heathens.

"No." He answers the wrong question, his head tilting again, eyes narrowing in deep concentration. "That's not right."

The fact he doesn't answer the question may be what led the duo into helping the trench coat (_Overcoatovercoatovercoat_) wearing man into a standing position, into telling him that he was okay and that they were going to help him. Or maybe is was because he looked so small lying on that hill, so dazed and stagnant.

The small man wouldn't know, as he was much too busy at that moment thinking of words that began with _H _and described the sky. By the time the slow moving trio arrived at the basement suite the couple inhabited, the man had decided on the word.

Home.

_I'm hunted._

Hunted by home.

* * *

><p>It was nine a.m on the dot when the group found themselves huddled in a confined, by the strange man's standards, living room, steam rising carelessly from the three neon cups placed quickly on a glass table. The inhabitants made no move to grab at the cooling drinks and instead opted for a awkward stare off. A brilliant blue met an eccentric hazel and a warm brown equally, without hesitation, but also without clarity.<p>

He swallowed.

"Can I help you?"

_He was supposed to help people, wasn't he? That's what he did._

Brown met hazel; but blue was supposed to meet green.

The male shifts awkwardly in his seat, his brown eyes receding to the table to form Strange Look # 2 while the female's hazel leaned forward with her body and reached out for the vivid blue. "How about you tell us your name?"

The man simply stares. He seems to do little else.

"Do... Do you _know _your name?"

No response. Quiet, quiet, quiet - but so abuzz was his mind, desperately searching for the word that would sound right when spoken. None came.

_Ji... Ji... Ji..._

"You kind of look like a Michael to me." The girl's laugh is weak and forced and causes the man opposite her to frown. He knows that name, but it isn't correct. The name has a... loathsome quality to it. Bitter. He tells her as such which sparks the other male into action.

"Well then, what is it?"

The man is thoughtful and off-topic when he responds.

"What day is it?"

"Thursday."

"Okay."

It was exactly ten minutes after nine that the couple silently named the strange man found staring blankly at the sky on a series of rolling hills Thursday. Crowley had itself one shot, but was spat at so violently, the couple unconsciously agrees to never speak it again.

* * *

><p>It takes three days for Thursday to properly learn his saviours' names. Another four till he actually achieves the proper name to person - Gale was the girl with sharp hazel eyes that were usually narrowed in a huff over something silly Andrew, the male with warm coffee-coloured eyes, had done. Or, they were large with concern when she would catch Thursday staring aimlessly out the window or even soft with an unspoken pity when the man would speak broken phrases. He never really seemed to get things right.<p>

* * *

><p>A week and a half lost itself to the wind before Andrew breaks the silence one early morn and questions Thursday, innocently curious to know if the strange man remembered just who he was yet.<p>

_Who _are_ you?_

A clink resounded, a fork dropped as intense eyes grew wide.

"I'm... I'm..." A breath, heartbeats race. Thursday's brows furrow, determined but oh so confused. "Perdition," is all he can finish with leaving the air free to accept the simultaneous sigh soon released.

_Thanks. That. Thanks _for _that._

"He didn't seem very gracious."

* * *

><p>It was a frantic Monday morning when Strange Look #17 arrives, with a slightly gaping mouth and sleepy eyes, just following Thursday deciding that every human is a work of heart and finds himself content to stayed perched on a park bench for seven hours.<p>

He almost has a name to go with the emotion.

_Ur... Sister. Alastair. Test. DemondemondemonANGEL._

His foreign hands bring themselves closer to their own as his mind battles itself.

_She's far from innocent. We've been through much together and -_

"I don't know whether you passed or failed."

* * *

><p>Strange Look #56 comes dressed following the news of Thursday's first death. Number fifty-seven comes following the news of Uriel's betrayal and Anna's fall to Earth, and fifty-eight trails behind by only a few minutes, breaking in after the startled epiphany: "God doesn't care."<p>

* * *

><p>Fifty-nine is late and quickly evolves to a look of panic, fear, and, soon, sorrow as Andrew gazes upon Thursday screaming against the walls of his small room, "I BELIEVED IN YOU."<p>

* * *

><p>Hunter.<p>

(**Hunt**•**er :**_ |ˈhən(t)ər| a person or animal that hunts : a deer hunter.)_

Thursday stares, and stares, and stares, head tilting inquisitively as he tries to figure out why the universal definition of the word _Hunter _doesn't match his own unknown definition. Where most saw deer, bears and wolves, he saw vampires, ghosts and demons. Pinching his brows together, the blue-eyed man pushes himself from the couch to wander the town instead.

He begins spending his afternoons in libraries looking through history records; the letters _S_ and _D_ balancing harshly on his tongue.

* * *

><p>"I have to. I have to wear it. <em>They may not recognize me otherwise.<em>"

* * *

><p>Strange Look # 275 is earned when Thursday decides to say Cupid is a Cherub, Third Class in the middle of dinner one night, and Strange Look # 276 when he informs Gale that no one likes their handshake.<p>

* * *

><p>It was at exactly three-fifteen on a quiet Wednesday afternoon that Thursday decides he loves the colour green. He states this as soon as the thought solidifies, leaving Andrew to stare at him with Strange Look # 397 and the young waitress, to whom the words were directed to as her eyes were a brilliant leaf hue, to giggle and shyly say, "Oh, really?"<p>

Her demeanor changes quickly though, as Thursday finishes his thought process with, "But your eyes are the wrong shade."

As she leaves the table, hasty in her movements, her eyes to the floor, her shoulders in a slight hunch, Gale is swift in her scolding. "Thursday!" she hisses. (_Wrongwrongwrong! the man wants to hiss, though it is he who decided upon the name._) "Jesus Christ!" (_No, I'm... I'm... Ghostfacers. Book. Pilot. Wrong. Right._) "For a man who doesn't remember anything, you sure know how to ruin a person's self esteem! Is _anything _**ever **the right shade for you?"

Thursday simply stares at her.

_And that isn't holy water._

* * *

><p>Gale was in the middle of doing laundry one dry Saturday afternoon, her mouth mindlessly humming a tune as she works, when Thursday stumbles in and informs her of another death. Balthazar. <em>BalthazarBalthazarBalthazar. <em>The name sticks with the fidgety man (_though Gale tended to call him a boy in her head_) for the rest of the week, leaving the young blonde to simply smile and wonder silently to herself when Thursday killing his brothers became a normal topic.

_For him._

"Raphael." _teenagemutantninjaangel_ "He was going to restart the Apocalypse."

* * *

><p>Number twenty-five was Thursday stealing Andrew's burger. Number four hundred and four was Andrew stealing the amnesiac's pickle chips and Thursday calling Andrew <em>Death.<em>

"Why do pets bite the hand that feeds them?"

* * *

><p>Seven months, eight hours later, curled in a peaceful corner of his town, Thursday finally meets someone with the proper colour eyes. The right blue. The right height. Though it was still the wrong person. (<em>Notgreengreengreen.<em>)

They had run into each other at the library. The tall, tall man stares at him, his clear eyes wide; almost nervous. Thursday stares right back at him, head beginning its trademark tilt as his mind screams at him; (_Samsamsammysamsoul...less? HENEEDSHISSOUL.) _It is then the tall, tall man nods his goodbye and tears from the building.

Thursday can only blink and wonder.

_Bomblawnfond._

**Bond.**

"I wasn't going to mention it."

* * *

><p>September 8th, the calendar reads out. Precisely seven months, three days, and seventeen hours after Thursday first appeared to a jogging couple out in some lazy, sprawling fields beneath a sleepy sun and curious birds. Exactly seven months, fours days and three hours after he is turned into a half-human, half-angel creature, and another three past him releasing the vile souls of Purgatory, as per God's orders.<p>

As it is promptly eight months and twelve hours since the moment he became _God._

Of course, that failed to sit well with any.

Which is why we are here.

Thursday can't help but think that the trio had a very rude way of capturing him, as he would have had no problem trailing them. None at all. It seemed they hadn't caught that memo, for they had jumped him earlier, and caused a momentary black out, the darkness only being extinguished when his eyes opened to stare at a gray, familiar as everything was, roof. Thursday blinks, his hand twitches, and his breath seems much too forced. He makes no move to stand, even when footsteps begin to echo and dart, filling the open space with scuffling sounds. It's only when a tall, tall, man speaks that he even turns his head.

"You can't escape."

I wasn't planning on it.

"We have you trapped."

How so?

"Didn't think you could hide from us forever, did you?"

No.

"It's time."

For what?

The trio is circling now and Thursday can't help but imagine them as a pack of wolves, snarling and nipping at an enemy too large to face alone. They are speaking again before he could even attempt a reply. Not that Thursday was really planning on it - his mind was much too busy running after the words _this is what I get? I get. This. Hunted. _I _hunted. No. I _am _hunted. I _**rebelled.**

It's five minutes into the eldest's speech, a speech Thursday takes no heed of - opting to instead to finally stand and stare aimlessly at the snow white drawings beneath his feet - when the wind decides to speed up it's dance. Brilliant blue lifts then, curious and intrigued, only to catch sight of a sliver sword, knife, _blade._

He blinks.

_Oh._

A scuffing sound is elicited as Thursday shifts and cocks his head to the side. The man holding the blade faces him, _deandeandeandean_, his green eyes, _finally the right shade_, meet his with no hesitation and the strong bile of betrayal fills Thursday's mouth. This one, the green eyed, leather jacketed man, is shorter than the tall, tall man, and Thursday can't help but believe it's because of the impossible amount of emotions that reside on his shoulders. He can see them all, all their colours; see them as they press, tease, and torment.

The man, _everythingeverything_, steps closer.

Thursday cocks his head. Broken names, words, threats and promises are starting to raise themselves higher and for the first time, the lost man finally knows the feeling of fear.

Another step.

The blue-eyed man wonders if all of God's creations were as passive to death as he was.

_Bang. Bang. One, two, t-h-r-e-e._

The blade gleams beneath the fluorescent lighting, and his mind drifts to night, wondering if the act would seem more beautiful if done under the pale moonlight as it reaches down, bathing the world in a gentle caress. Ca... Thursday always did love the night, when the stars began their aging dance, and the moon finally woke and stretched for the dying earth. Not that it mattered; no one would mourn him. Not even the sky.

One more step. Dean, how right the name felt, was now standing at the edge. Waiting, watching, _wanting. _Wanting **what **exactly was the question Thursday struggled to find an answer for.

The eldest's speech soon ties itself up; the tall, tall man's soul resigns itself to stay in a painful corner. And the green eyed man takes two quick steps. It always did amaze the once-angel how quick death really was. It only took a small collection of five insignificant seconds for him to go from a stuttering heart to a shaky breath.

* * *

><p><em>You have <em>**nothing **_to say to me._

* * *

><p>The blade goes right through him; curiously, not through his heart. Instead, it pierces itself through his stomach, stealing away Thursday's breath and leaving his right hand to fly out and snatch the only stable thing around. His chin trembles and his breath falters, but he feels no pain. Blood, <em>Jimmy's blood<em>, fills his mouth, staining his taste buds with metallics, heartbreak, and perfidy. The room goes still.

The dying man takes a slow breath.

Tentatively, Thursday lifts his left hand. When it isn't rejected, he moves it closer to the freckled man's face, his right hand still gripping the man's left forearm tight. Timid and fearful, the left hand brushes Dean's face, traces his jaw line gently before finally placing itself across bright green eyes, twitching slightly when soft eyelashes flutter lightly against his palm. The familiar stranger opens his mouth, mostly likely to form a question, but Thursday beats him to it, his words calming the fire of anger ready to spread from the two men that had also joined in the cornering of a very confused man.

Tilting his head ever so slightly to the right, the blue-eyed man gives a crooked and gentle smile. "You shouldn't have to watch a creature as pathetic as I die, Dean Winchester."

The name rolls off his tongue in a hasty way, like it was quite affronted with the length of time it took for it to leave. It had a wonted taste and nestled itself rather nicely in a little crook of Thursday's mind before gazing up, ready for the end.

"I'm not sorry," Thursday whispers slowly - beaten and battered - his Grace already beginning to emanate from his body. He wasn't dead yet, as the blade that had torn deep into his skin had not yet moved. Only when the Angel's blade had finished two strokes would the Angel truly die - leaving his Grace to embellish one last imprint on the world, and then to evaporate into it, creating one last wonder, giving one last gift to the trembling mass of Humanity. But, as the blade remained fast, the would-be God still speaks. "Nor will I ever be. I apologize only for the fact my deeds caused harm to befall you. But I did it for you, Dean."

_All of it for you._

"I did everything for you."

The once Angel gives a small smile, his vivid, vivid eyes half-lidded and slowly beginning to drain. Beneath his hands, he can feel Dean's body, feel it tremble and gasp as it struggles to hold itself together. Thursday's hand, the one that is blocking Dean's view, feels itself become wet with salt and anguish; it causes a fragile frown to pull at paling lips.

"Do not mourn my passing. I..." Thursday pauses, unsure on how to finish. He is still locked in the dark, unknowing as to what he did to ignite such anger from the trio that cornered him. But... He still finds himself unafraid. Accepting. "I can think of no better way to leave this realm than by your hands."

_It was a warrior's end._

His grip was starting to loosen. Dean's voice finally cracks open - softly it escapes, ever so rough, stained, and broken.

"Goodbye, Cas."

_Cas._

A soft, alien grin. He remembers now - his beginnings.

_Cas. Castiel. Angel of _**Thursday.**

_Who. Are. You?_

_. . ._

**I am an Angel of the Lord.**

* * *

><p>Goodbye, Dean Winchester. The Righteous Man.<p>

* * *

><p>And, as his body slipped and the blade fell to silent sleep on the floor, Castiel's re-found wings blazed out in a final tribute to their broken angel and embedded their print on a certain Winchester; enveloping a startled Dean in a flurry of final feathers - forever staying in the position they never quite left.<p> 


End file.
